


Eucalyptus

by Neffie (originalneffie)



Category: NCIS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathing/Washing, Canon-typical Tiva, Episode: s07e01 Truth or Consequences, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Male-Female Friendship, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalneffie/pseuds/Neffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ziva comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eucalyptus

**Author's Note:**

> Deviates from canon after 07x01 _Truth or Consequences_ with information and dialogue from 07x04 _Good Cop, Bad Cop_ used. All violence and torture occurs offscreen. Un-betaed.

Above all things, Timothy McGee is a big brother.

It is in his eyes, the line of his mouth, and the set of his shoulders. Ziva sees all of that in him at this moment and something in her chest shifts and starts to crumble.

She is as helpless as a baby sparrow and he starts to help her undress.

She has grown numb to her nudity. Rape is common in interrogations, highly effective in breaking one's defensives. As Mossad, she was taught to expect it if captured. What _is_ surprising is Tim's sense of calm. No nervous fumbling, no blush that reaches the tips of his ears. There is no stutter as he narrates every action, letting her know where his hands will be next. Her reflection is standing over his shoulder, eyes huge and dark, body painted in concentric circles of yellows, greens, purples and reds. Her ribs rippling against her skin and her hips scooped and empty. She hasn't seen herself in three months, and now she can't look away.

McGee turns her shoulders toward the bath, breaks her gaze. He takes her weight into his arms, lifting her up and into the tub. Her legs twitch, wanting to help. It is exhausting and she can only sigh when he holds her head in his palm, tilting her chin up to pour water over her hair. Shutting her eyes is an unnecessary reflex. He had done this many times before, when Sarah had still been small. She focuses on his long fingers running over her scalp, working the sand from her hair. She can't remember the last time hands on her hadn't meant pain.

McGee is humming softly. She drifts. He lowers her head to rest on a towel folded over the end of the tub, wiping at her face and neck with slow, careful movements. Words are forming in the song under his breath. _Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral._ She doesn't know what it means but it feels like a lullaby to soothe a sick child.

“Let's make sure we get behind the ears,” her eyes open at his voice and he smiles warm at her even though it probably pulls at the scratches on his face. A shaking hand tries to lift, to touch, only managing an inch before dropping back into the water with a weak splash. In the cell, the shadows had made it impossible to tell what had been blood, bruise or dirt as he laid there on the ground.

“Ziva.” He waits until her eyes focus again, his hand under her chin tilts her face towards him. There is his frown again, his wrinkled brow.

For the first time, he hesitates. “If it hurts... or if you... if you just want to _stop_ , tell me. Tell me and we will.” She looks into his face for a long moment.

Once he had told her he was raised to be a gentleman and it had made perfect sense to her. Timothy McGee is the most gentle man she has ever known.

“Ziva? Do you need me to stop?”

A slow shake. _No_.

His hand moves to cup her cheek.

“Will you tell me if you do?”

He waits.

A nod. _Yes._ Just as slow.

Her eyes close. She sighs, drained from the effort.

Starting at her right shoulder, he works his way down her arm. His touch is strong and controlled and the tension locked in her muscles surrenders beneath it. She thinks about the burning of circulation restored to her limbs after long sessions in the chair. It had been just as bad as anything else they did to her. All she had been able to do was lie there in partial paralysis, unable to lift herself out of the dirt. Both of Tim's large hands clasp her smaller one, delicately working between every finger, careful of where the nails are torn. More warm water spills over her, rinsing away the soap and the shade of the desert. He reaches across to her other shoulder, repeating the ritual. His forearms are dark with bruises of their own, a missed patch of dried blood partially hidden by the collar of his loose MIT shirt. Like her reflection, she can't look away. All of it is so horribly out of place.

His hand smooths over her wet hair and he meets her forehead with his lips. She feels him shudder, sighing harsh and deep in his throat. His breath is warm and damp, breaking over her brow like a wave. It is Tim's wordless prayer of thanksgiving. To her it feels like the beginnings of absolution.

He bends until their foreheads are resting against each other, taking comfort in the simple sound of each other breathing. They are content to stay like this, swaying with the slight shift of their moving chests. They breathe. They listen. With their eyes closed, they wait.

She swallows.

He waits.

She nods.

There are burns on her breasts, bite marks that have broken the skin, dark pink ridges of newly healed scars. Tim's touch is tender and sure and his motions are slow without lingering. His eyes have darkened and his mouth is pulled down at the corners. Anger rarely comes easy to him, even when Tony is in top form. The potential is there, always ready if he needs it, but only as a last resort. McGee is a boyscout and being prepared is something he takes very seriously. Out of all of them, he is the one to think his way out of a situation in less time than fighting would take. It is something she has tried to learn from him.

He works in smooth circles down her ribs. Across her stomach the bruises are the worst. He moves over them with the lightest pressure he can manage. The weight of the cloth feels crushing. She must have made some small noise because she hears the click in his throat as he swallows. “Almost done,” he promises with a voice that's cracking around the edges. He stops at the line of her hips, where the bruises start to take the shape of palms and fingers. His deliberate hands reach up to run his thumbs over her cheekbones. There is a disconnected wonder before she realizes she is crying. He wipes tears from her face without a word. They stay like that for long moments.

He waits.

She nods.

His knees shift on the hard tiles until he can pull her up against him. One arm washes her back with long, easy strokes, wringing the soapy water out of the cloth to run light over the welts. His other arm cradles her head, tucking her under his chin. He begins to hum again, that same lullaby with the words she doesn't understand. She can feel the bass in his chest against hers, the treble where her temple rests against his clavicle.

The pipes in the walls hiss and echoes come out of the corners like ghosts. A conversation from when she had been alien and off-balance, hawkish and wary.

_McGee isn't your father..._

From when she had been the salt rubbed into the gaping wounds her brother had made.

_and he isn't Ari..._

Tim's arms are strong around her, gently rocking them both to the soft rhythm of the lullaby. If she had the strength to move her hands, she would clutch at him, try to climb under his skin. She doesn't. She can't.

_He doesn't know how to lie._

“It's over,” he tells her.

She shivers and feels the flex of him drawing her closer. His arms pressing against her naked back make the welts sting but she barely notices. He curls tighter over and around her, spine hunched the way he would shield her from flames and shrapnel.

_He doesn't know how to lie._

“You're safe now. No one is going to hurt you,” he tells her.

His shirt is soaked from holding her this way. The warmth from his body seeps into her bare chest that is heaving off tempo. A ball of heat gathers in her ribs and spread out to her limbs. At last she can flex her fingers, can lift her arms to wrap around his neck.

_He doesn't know how to lie._

“You're home, Ziva. You're home.” he tells her.

_Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral._


End file.
